TWO
"If the horror is inside how do you get it out?"
~ Jeanette Winterson, Gut Symmetries
The temporary cold days and nights quickly give way to the usual humidity that comes hand-in-hand with the lull of September. Unfortunately, that means the body that'd been lying face down in the garden for at least two days now stinks enough to seemingly permeate through the neighborhood, which had prompted the neighbors to call the police in the first place. Sheriff Meeker scrunches his nose in disgust when he helps turn the body rightside up, staring into the empty space where her left eye used to be.
"A damn shame," he mutters when he steps away from the crime scene and into the empty dirt road, shucks off his gloves to light up a cigarette. His partner follows. "That girl–no older than fifteen."
His partner, Deputy Logan, nods, leaning against the squad car.
"Her father's in the house. Wrists slit. Could we say this is a murder-suicide?"
Meeker nods, "sick fuck. We could say that. It'd help our numbers, wouldn't it?"
"Seems fairly open and close to me," Logan offers. The sun creeps up on the horizon as Meeker tips ash from his cigarette onto the ground below, "yet, I don't think that sits right with you. I've known you for a long time, Ben. I know that look. What's on your mind?"
"I don't know," Meeker confesses, "usually cases like this involve firearms, or sexual assault. Something just isn't adding up." He leans in and offers, softer now, "I've got Laurie Strode and her granddaughter holed up at my place. Have for a few days. The girl's spooked because she thinks Michael's back for him."
"You seriously think that this could be him?" Logan guffaws. Meeker shakes his head.
"No. I don't know. We'll just see what the forensics tell us. We never found his body, only DNA."
"You're out of your goddamn mind, you know that?"
"Sure," Meeker says, turning over a photo in a clear evidence bag of the young girl inside, whose chestnut brown hair and bright smile only serves to remind him of Allyson. His brow furrows at the blood smeared over it.
"Good morning, gentlemen," a gentle voice says, quiet yet firm over the men working at cleaning the site of evidence.
"Bloom," Meeker says, voice taut. Margaret Bloom, a columnist for the Warren County Inquisitor and occasional viral freelancer, smiles wide with her straight white teeth. Her long blonde hair shines a rosy color in the sunlight. Somewhere beneath her girl next door exterior, there's intent.
"Sheriff Meeker," Bloom says, "I came to ask a few questions, if that's okay?"
"You can reach me through my extension at the police department."
"Sheriff-"
"Now, get back behind the line, would you?"
Lips twisted in a humorless sort of smile, Bloom takes a few steps away from the yellow tape, but not before snapping a photo of the crime scene on her phone away from Logan and Meeker's view. Only then does she retreat, approaching her car in the distance. Meeker's jaw loosens when he notices her drive down the street.
"What's got your panties in a bunch, Ben?" Logan asks.
"I don't trust that shitbag Bloom. She's no good. I know it."
"Those reporters, they never are."
"It's not just that," Meeker shakes his head, "just gotta keep an eye on her, that's all."
Allyson's reaching the end of a three day run on adderall when her lungs start burning and she has to take a break from her run. Her knee replacement aches in a deep sort of way while sweat pours down her face, soaks her hair, leaves the taste of salt in her mouth. She takes a seat on a curb, head between her knees as she gasps for air through wet breaths.
The early morning chill begins to set in as she takes in the silence of the long, empty street. Haddonfield sleeps in on Sunday mornings, especially before five, according to her smart watch. Shivers wrack her form, up the running shorts and tank top she wears, especially now that she's caked in her own sweat. A small whiff makes her cringe. Crashing provides some much-needed clarity-at least, in how long it's been since she's seen the inside of a shower.
"Fucking hell," she mutters when her watch and phone buzz at once. Laurie's face stares back at her and she instantly declines the call. When Laurie tries again, she puts her on do-not-disturb. When Kelly calls right after, Allyson reluctantly declines the call through gritted teeth, and only answers the second time, declining the FaceTime.
"I woke up and you were gone!"
"I'm fine," Allyson mutters, "just on a run. I had to get out of the house."
"Listen, you just need to get back soon, okay?" Kelly's voice sounds frantic. Allyson's brow furrows.
"What happened, Kelly?"
"You just need to get back, my dad will talk about it with you."
"Is it-is it him-"
"No. It's not."
Allyson exhales a shaky breath, which is followed by a few more heaving coughs.
"Do you need me to pick you up, Ally?"
"No," Allyson says harshly, "I'm fine. I'll be back soon."
Dread twists at her gut when she hangs up before Kelly can add anything else. Stuffing her phone in her pocket, she strains to stand up, using a nearby telephone pole to balance herself on her feet. She feels dizzy and queasy, and has to bend over again when she feels bile coming up. Nothing happens, though, leading her to amble and lean against the pole once more. Her phone buzzes. A text from Cameron.
I can hook you up with something else if you want it.
Lmk
Her head shakes with a small smile as she uses speech-to-text to say, "I'm crashing hard. Need to sleep, but I'm fucked. You got anything for that?"
You know I got you, always.
She merely responds by sharing her location, exhaling against a sharp gust of cold wind that seems to smack her as it blows fast and hard. She thinks about the knife she left at home for once, about the hypervigilance that's followed her around these past few years. It's as if getting the bracelet had the opposite effect it should have.
It's only a few moments before Cameron pulls up in his father's rickety old truck, engine roaring loudly from down the road. Allyson crosses the front to climb up into the passenger seat, grunting as her knee burns in protest from the effort.
"Why are you out so early?" Cameron asks, handing her the THC wax and a rig that Allyson lights up to smoke. Coughing so loud she's afraid her lungs will burst out of her chest, Allyson wheezes out the remaining smoke in her lungs to take two more hits. Then she leans back against the soft chair, feels the car softly hum beneath her as Cameron puts it in drive.
"I needed to go for a run. My grandmother is pissing me off. Everyone is pissing me off, actually. I just need a break."
"I feel that," Cameron agrees. "My dad's been irritating the fuck out of me. We should just leave Haddonfield."
"You're funny," Allyson breathes, effectively shrugging him off, "I need you to drop me off at Kelly's. I'm staying with her right now."
"That bad?"
"Sure," Allyson says, "but not for long. I just need to be in my own bed. Her and Brady are annoying, too."
"Mm," Cameron says, half-engaged in the conversation but simultaneously immersed both in his phone and the road, "you could always stay with me."
"Your family hates me," Allyson says, "and besides-I appreciate the offer, Cam, but I'm alright. At least my mom's has the security system."
"Our family has enough guns to be security enough."
"You think my grandmother and I don't?" Allyson laughs, "I do appreciate it. Maybe I can think about it, I don't know."
"Alright," Cameron smiles. Allyson returns the smile, easier through the effects of the wax that starts to relax her more, and reaches out to affectionately brush her fingers through his overgrown hair. She doesn't miss the way it makes him blush.
The thirty minutes it'd taken to run translates to a ten minute drive, and before long, they're parked in front of the Meeker's big house. Her heart, already racing as it is, drops a little at the sight of Meeker's cruiser in the driveway.
"See you later, alligator," Cameron says. Allyson rolls her eyes and waves, trying her best not to amble up the steps to the front door, which suddenly seem to have increased in volume. The door swings open before she can even knock on it.
"Allyson," Laurie breathes, pulling her into a tight embrace, "I was so goddamn worried about you, where did you go?"
Allyson's arms, which hang loosely by her sides, slowly move to return the hug, leaning against Laurie as she inhales the smell of gunpowder and soap.
"I just needed to go for a run," Allyson says, hopes her voice isn't as slurred as it seems to be, "clear my head and all. I'm okay."
"Uh huh," Laurie says, confirming Allyson's suspicions that she can detect just how high she is.
"Allyson!" Meeker says from behind them. Allyson's body feels like it's five seconds behind her head when she turns around to face him, barely able to keep her eyes open to look him in the face. If he also notices how high she is, he says nothing about it.
"We have something to show you. Maybe you should sit."
Now afraid, despite every sensation feeling so far away, she sits on the couch, brushing against Kelly beside her. She feels her sweaty skin stick to the leather yet feels freezing all at once despite being unable to keep the sweat from pouring down her cheek. Kelly's hand squeezes her shoulder which is when Allyson registers that Meeker voice is talking to her. She looks up when she sees the light from a tablet and squints to make out the words on it.
Her National Honors Society portrait stares back at her, along with an old house and a picture of Michael Myers' mugshot from 1978. She notices the face of another young girl crudely cropped beside hers, albeit much smaller.
"Maggie Bloom is a shitbag tabloid reporter who thinks she's a crime reporter, she has her own website-"
Allyson takes the tablet and starts reading through the article, feels her stomach lurch as she registers details about the girl-Anna Field, that's her name, which Allyson tries to commit to memory-who was found murdered in her own backyard, that this could be the start of something ugly and awful between Michael and Allyson because of the fact that his body had never been found-which is when Allyson can't read any longer and nearly drops the tablet. The effects of the wax don't help.
"How did she get away with that shit?" Laurie exclaims, "why was she even allowed on the crime scene to take these pictures? You need to do something about this."
"We're already looking into it, Laurie," Meeker says, "we just wanted you to know about this before anyone else told you, or before you look anywhere online-"
"I deleted all my social media," Allyson interjects, earning a pointed look from Laurie. Meeker shifts, unsure of how to address the way Allyson is almost dozing off on his couch. She stands, finds Laurie's arm around her waist when she nearly stumbles. It doesn't keep her from continuing to ramble on, "I just need to go home. I can worry about this Maggie Bloom later-I appreciate your help, Ben, I just need to go home. I need to be alone."
"Ally-" Kelly argues, but thankfully, Laurie steps in, shaking her head.
"I think we've had a rough couple of days," Laurie says, kind but firm, the grandmother that Allyson's come to know in the past three years. She holds it together for both of them. She leans more of her weight against her and fights to keep her eyes from closing as exhaustion takes over her. Laurie's voice becomes more and more far away as she adds, "I'm going to take her home and we'll talk about this later. We do appreciate your help," Laurie fixes her attention on Meeker, "I will call you about all of this, okay?"
Meeker nods in understanding, and, after declining a police escort home, Laurie practically hauls Allyson to the backseat of her truck, where Allyson haphazardly lies across the back. The sun feels hot but the glass from the window simultaneously feels cool on her flushed skin and she closes her eyes against it, finally, as the car rumbles beneath her. Laurie turns down the radio when it does come on.
"I know you're high, Allyson," Laurie admonishes, straight to the point as always, "I thought you cut that shit out a year ago."
"I did, grandmother," Allyson argues, voice slurred, "this is just dabs. It's weed, kind of. Not that big of a deal."
"Maybe now, but you've been non-stop for days and you look like absolute shit. I know it's not just weed."
"Don't worry about it," Allyson sniffles, feeling the sleep deprivation from the last few days catching up with her but opens her eyes to meet Laurie's in the rearview mirror anyway, regardless of how drowsy she feels. She sees her own bloodshot eyes staring back at her, her greasy hair. If she weren't feeling so far away, dread would pool in her gut at the disappointment in Laurie's eyes but she feels nothing, as always.
"I'm going to worry about it, Allyson," Laurie says, "I don't know what's gotten into you. You were doing so well, as well as you could be. It's like you gave up as soon as you found out he could be back, and now, he really could be. You and I both know it, more than any of them. Why are you being like this? Do you want to be weak, Allyson?"
That's when Allyson starts to laugh, feeling nauseous. Some part of her knows Laurie is right, that this is the Laurie that she needs more than anything, but she resents it.
"You don't know shit," Allyson nearly spits, "you don't know shit! I haven't been okay in a long, long time! He ruined your life, but he ruined mine, too. We're not the same. You spent forty years, using him as a scapegoat for all of your problems. I'm not doing that. I'm-I'm just trying to get through this, right now, and I'm not pretending like I'm doing anything different."
Thankfully, they pull into the driveway. Allyson climbs out as soon as they park.
"You know that I'm right, Allyson!" Laurie's quicker than her, now, hand snaking around her wrist, "you need to listen to me! You need to stop this! We need to do this together. We need each other!"
Allyson yanks her wrist away, feels the salt of tears in her mouth before she feels herself crying as she tumbles onto the front steps. She doesn't notice the neighbors staring and quite frankly doesn't give a shit.
"Leave me alone, okay? Just leave me alone!"
Allyson fumbles to enter the house and runs up the stairs, grateful she doesn't trip down them in her haste, and slams the door behind her. Despite the fact that Laurie doesn't follow her, Allyson locks her doorknob and immediately begins to strip to climb into the shower. The freezing cold water turns her skin purple but it feels good, and she climbs into bed with only underwear on.
That's when she finally plugs in her dead phone, groaning at the shattered screen that'd happened at some point today. A few notifications from her school email, some texts from Kelly, some from Cameron. She's not aware of when her eyes close but feels her phone fall onto the carpeted floor and lets it happen, curling onto her side to let sleep take over her.
In her dream, especially visceral from sleep deprivation, she hears heavy breathing before she sees his stark white face in the iron dark above her. Only then does she register that she's split open down the middle, as if she's lying on an autopsy table and Michael is her mortician. All of her insides are outside, now, completely exposed. Michael steps in closer to her and her eyes close at the glint of a knife. Instead, it doesn't come. Only his hand on her face, a familiar sensation that she'd never forget, his rough fingers on her lips.
That's when he reaches down to yank out her sternum and then her heart. His head tilts as it beats hard in his hand, as she tries to scream but can't.
He looks down at her and she opens her eyes, struggling to catch her breath. It's already dark in her bedroom, the only light peering in a yellow streetlight from across the street. She exhales, pushing herself out of bed. Her body aches and her throat feels unbearably dry, like concrete. Searching on the floor for her phone, she reads that it's midnight, meaning she's been asleep for over twelve hours.
Swallowing thickly, Allyson finally looks through the notifications that have amassed since this morning, leaving Kelly on read until she can think of what to reply with. She doesn't open Cameron's messages at all, and instead, focuses her attention on the school emails she's neglected. In fact, she hasn't touched anything from her online school in over a week.
While she thumbs through the emails, she finds one that sticks out the most: Margaret Bloom.
Hello Allyson,
I hope this email finds you well. I wanted to reach out with this opportunity.
I just moved back to Haddonfield after years of living in Chicago. As you know, your story is so famous that there's so many different narratives. I personally think that it deserves to be told from your mouth and no one else's, don't you?
You can email me back here or give me a call at my number. I just want to talk. We can help each other out in more ways than one.
Best,
Maggie
Allyson feels her eye twitch at the perfunctory signature line and locks her phone, leaving her facing the old glow in the dark stickers on her ceiling. It's too late to do anything, really, other than to lie here and think. No one is awake on a weekday night this long. She stands, throwing on a sweatshirt and old pants, and heads downstairs for a glass of water.
The pungent smell of gun oil hits her nose before she notices her grandmother on the couch, cleaning fire arms on the coffee table. She exhales, pushing her fingers through her fine hair before crossing into the kitchen to pour a large glass of ice water. She pops one of the turnovers Laurie made for dinner into her mouth before sitting on the sofa, facing her grandmother in her recliner chair.
Laurie waits for Allyson to speak first, and Allyson searches for all of the words to say before finally announcing: "I'm sorry, for earlier. You were right."
"Allyson-" Laurie says, quickly turning down the old sitcom on the big television mounted above the mantle, "no, Allyson, I'm sorry. You're so young. You're not me, and I'm not you. It's different now."
"No, grandmother, you're right," Allyson says firmly, "I needed to hear all of that. I don't want to, but I do. I feel like I've done okay, these past few years, all things considered. But ever since I found that bracelet, it's like I don't know what to do."
"Like I've told you before, Allyson, I may not understand fully, but I do more than anyone else. I have a hard time talking about my feelings, more than you do, but we've always gotten through it together. You've helped me so much, and I hope I've helped you, but I don't know."
"You've stepped up to the plate. You're not the same person who raised mom, I know that," Allyson says, drags her hands down her face and mutters, "I've been taking uppers and downers. I don't want to think about him being back, or about how I feel about him being back. Maybe, in some way, me letting myself be vulnerable means he can get me sooner and get it over with, or something."
She glances up at Laurie between her fingers and says, "what if I'm excited that he's back? I've been so numb for so long, but now, I feel something. What kind of piece of shit does that make me, grandmother?"
Laurie sets her gun down and wipes her hands, moves to sit beside Allyson. As she wraps an arm around Allyson's shoulders, Allyson leans into her and feels tears prick at her eyes, blurring her vision. She furiously wipes at her eyes before they can fall down her face and buries her face into Laurie's shoulder where she wets her shirt with them.
"What's wrong with me?" Allyson weeps.
"Nothing is wrong with you, baby," Laurie says, pushing her fingers through Allyson's hair, "nothing at all, okay? This is normal. This is how I felt, too."
"You don't anymore?"
"No," Laurie admits, "not anymore. Leaving him to burn to death changed things for me, somewhere deep down inside of me. But I was consumed by that, all my life. I understand."
"How do I make it stop?"
"I don't know, Allyson. We both went through different experiences, forty years apart. Leaving him to burn to death with my old house, with all the things from my life before this."
"So I need to live life as bitter and unstable as possible until he comes for me. Luckily, I'm halfway there, right? He's back," Allyson pulls away, looking her grandmother in the face, "you and I both know it. And no one is taking us seriously about it."
"I know," Laurie says, "that's why we need to do this ourselves. Take care of it ourselves, just us. It starts with you not self-medicating anymore."
"I'll try," Allyson breathes, sitting back against the couch as Laurie's rough fingers caress over her scarred cheek. Her eyes flutter closed against the gentle touch. "This is going to be hard. So hard. I'm glad I have you, grandmother."
Laurie smiles and, leaning in, presses her lips against Allyson's forehead and says, "I know. But I've got you, and no one will hurt you again."
Somehow, with her grandmother so close by, Allyson believes it, even if just for the moment.
Maggie Bloom fixes her bulletin board of newspaper clippings and various research with a cock of the head. It's the most she can get away with in the hotel room she's staying in unless this venture to Haddonfield proves fruitful. She knocks a jolly rancher around her teeth as she takes in the visual layout of all her research thus far, with Allyson Nelson at the center of it.
When there's a knock at the door, she rushes to get it, tugging her loose cardigan closer around her petite form when she feels the draft from outside. When she opens it, she has to look up to meet Allyson Nelson's gaze.
"Allyson?" Maggie asks, surprised to find her there. Immediately, she steps aside, "come in, I wasn't expecting you, not so late, anyway."
"I saw your email," Allyson says, stepping in from outside as she takes in her hotel room. Immediately, her gaze fixates on the wall full of details about her and Michael, unable to help it. She steps closer to it. "I thought about it for awhile, and I thought that it could be good, even for me, to talk to someone who isn't a shrink. You're a good writer, even if you did start with those awful grocery store tabloid magazines. My mom used to keep some of your stuff on the toilet. That's where I recognized your name."
The two women share a smile, Maggie's a little more taut but interested, still, as she gets out her yellow notepad and sits.
"Why don't you sit down, Allyson? All I have is this Keurig and it's gross, but I can make some coffee for you."
"I'm good," Allyson says, sitting in one of the cheap stools by the kitchenette, "I saw your article. You made a lot of baseless assumptions between all of that good writing. But some of them were true."
"Like what?" Maggie asks, pen flying on the paper as she writes her note. Allyson exhales before she continues.
"I think he's back, and he's back for me. No one is taking me seriously."
"Not even your girlfriend's father, Meeker?"
Allyson feels her face burn, at the mere idea of Kelly as her partner which has been an unattainable goal for the years they've been so close, and shakes her head.
"Kelly isn't my girlfriend," Allyson corrects, "and no, not even Ben. He's a good man. I don't think I'd be alive without him and my mother, but no. No one takes me seriously. I feel like I'm going insane."
"You don't think you'd be alive without them, do you? You know, you never went into detail about your captivity. The police found you half-dead, but he kept you alive, didn't he?"
"Yes, Michael did," Allyson says quietly, "he kept me alive and didn't hurt me until I hurt him first. I don't know why that is. In-I've never said this to anyone before, but I feel like I have some sort of bond, with him. That-all of his crimes, even before I was born, are somehow my fault. Isn't that stupid? I'm not complicit, but it feels like I am, even now. He killed my mother, my friends, all to get to me. It shouldn't feel like it's my fault, I never hurt anyone besides him. But that's what he wanted. He wanted me to enjoy it, to enjoy hurting someone, even if that someone was him, maybe. I don't know. But now I know I can do anything, now that I'm free," Allyson chuckles and adds, "I don't feel free, though. He's been with me these past few years."
"What do you mean by being able to do anything?"
"I mean that in every possible way. I could hurt anyone. I could hurt myself. But I'm also determined. How else do you think I survived?"
Maggie hums, jotting down her notes. Allyson glances at her watch and stands, saying, "look, I have to go, but I wanted to stop by really quick while I was around. We can set up another time to talk for longer than now and see where we can go from here. You're not as bad as Ben and the others made you out to be."
"Well, Allyson, I really appreciate all of this," Maggie says with a smile, standing to follow Allyson out the door, "let me walk you to your car. I'm looking forward to meeting with you again. My schedule isn't really full at all."
"Neither is mine," Allyson admits, "I can meet you here on Tuesday morning. It was nice talking to you."
"You too."
Maggie watches as Allyson descends the stairs to step into her car, waving and smiling as the door closes. Allyson keeps a smile on her face until she pulls away from the parking lot, exhaling as her face goes serious. That's when her eye catches a glint of metal on the dashboard.
Her hand comes up to cup the silvery chain, where her fingers follow until she finds the pendant of the necklace Vicky gave her. The chain is even rusted, darkened in some spots with blood. Tears start to brim her eyes as she moves her hand to touch her own neck, where both the necklace and Michael's hands had both wrapped around it, and chuckles with a smile at this particular gift.
Tonight is particularly cold. Rebecca O'Rourke pulls her cardigan closer to herself as she walks her dog, a Labrador retriever mix, down the street. She lives in the shitty part of Haddonfield, the part where there's no sidewalk or really any houses less than a mile away. Her parents had compromised: a bigger and better house to live in the middle of nowhere. She's hated it since she moved here a year ago but luckily, her senior year is almost here which means she can move back to Chicago once she graduates.
It's nice, though, being able to walk her dog, Daisy, in places like this. She loves the grass, the open space. Rebecca cuts through the field behind her house to let Daisy enjoy the tall grass and chasing whatever animals she happens to see. Rebecca keeps a good grip on her leash and doesn't let her run too far.
"Finally," Rebecca mutters when Daisy bends to poop. Rebecca looks away as her nose furls in disgust, across the field. As her breath forms in puffs from the cold, she notices a shape standing so far away she can barely see, barely human-shaped. Its face is white. When she blinks, it's gone, even when she pushes her chestnut brown hair behind her face to get a better look.
Finally, Daisy is finished. Rebecca exhales sharply, quickly cleaning the poop up with a quick scoop of the bag in her hand and pulls her back in the direction of their house.
"Sorry," she mutters, as if her dog can hear her, "we're cutting this short."
When they start their walk home, Rebecca holds tight onto the keys in her pocket and keeps vigilant as the feeling of being watched follows her home and through the front door, even when it locks seemingly safely behind her.
Author's Notes: For longtime readers of mine, the character of Maggie Bloom should be familiar. She was an OC in a now-deleted story of mine.